<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Souvenir by EmmyJay</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147212">Souvenir</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay'>EmmyJay</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Doctor Who (2005), Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aging, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Episode: s01e10 The Doctor Dances, Episode: s02e01 New Earth, Episode: s05e02 The Beast Below, Immortality, M/M, Minor England/France (Hetalia), Minor The Doctor/Jack Harkness, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Episode: s02e13 Doomsday</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 11:33:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,647</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26147212</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmyJay/pseuds/EmmyJay</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two men of questionable morals and mortality, and the intersecting points of their lives through time and space.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jack Harkness/France (Hetalia)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Souvenir</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally written in May 2011, revised/reposted September 2020.  I gave it spoiler warnings for a few DW episodes then, but I don't think those are particularly relevant any more.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>London, England - 1941 CE</b>
</p><p>A man pours a second glass of wine for his new acquaintance, whose laughter gives him chills.  It's not an unpleasant feeling, the same as it's not an unpleasant laugh.  Quite the contrary—it is a low, purring sound, which drips seduction and sexuality from every syllable, and causes heat to coil in the pits of Jack's stomach.</p><p>No, it is far from unpleasant to listen to this beauty, this golden-haired incubus, over a bottle of fine wine in a room full of soldiers.</p><p>"I admit myself intrigued," the Frenchman says, and laughs again, giving Jack more of those delectable chills. "You wear the uniform of England’s airmen, and yet your accent tells me you are <i>américain</i>." He inclines his head forward, his lips twitching with amusement. "Tell me, has America at last decided to aide us in this war, as the hero he so claims to be?"</p><p>Jack ponders his answer a moment, recalling his Earth history the best that he can, and thinks little of the blond's unusual wording.</p><p>"Soon," he concedes at last, as vague as he can manage. "Yeah, I think you'll be hearing from them sometime soon."</p><p>"You sound so certain," the Frenchman quips.  Jack allows himself a cheeky grin around the rim of his wineglass, and doesn't elaborate any further.</p><p>"Enough of this war talk," he says instead after a sip, setting the glass on the table. "Tell me about yourself; what's your name, my good fellow?"</p><p>The Frenchman blinks, as though surprised, and sits back in his chair; he seems to be at a loss.</p><p>"<i>Moi</i>? I am...” He pauses, eyes following the swirl of wine in his glass. "...Francis. Yes, that is my name: Francis."</p><p>Jack smiles broader, because the name is obviously fake and <i>oh</i>, but the French are terrible liars—but right now the issue is hardly of concern to him.</p><p>"Well then, Francis," he says indulgingly, and lifts his glass in a gesture half-toast, half-salute. "Captain Jack Harkness, at your service." The Frenchman—Francis—smiles, and his cornflower eyes glimmer with obvious interest.</p><p>"Captain, is it?" he purrs. "I think, perhaps, I would like to know you better, <i>mon capitaine</i>."</p><p>They barely make it to the empty office before they fall to twisting and turning, mouths clashing, hands scrambling for purchase on coats and cloaks and uniforms; sliding beneath stiff army-issue shirts in search of hot, wanting flesh.  There is no bed available, so they make do with a desk, Francis' pale back arching over the wood.  He is magnificent to behold, and Jack finds himself wishing for more time with this beautiful, sensual man, because <i>damn</i>, they simply do not make them like this in his day and age.</p><p>But time is a fickle thief, and the two have barely a moment of afterglow before the sirens start, and they both have to scramble to dress and make themselves some semblance of presentable.</p><p>"I was wondering, Francis," Jack says as they stand in the doorway, the sound of faraway explosions nothing more than a background soundtrack to their previous coupling. "You're French; what are you doing in London, in the middle of all this?"</p><p>Francis smiles: a sly, secretive smile.</p><p>"I am keeping watch over a friend," he says, simply.  And for the first time that night, Jack has the distinct feeling that <i>he</i> is the one being kept in the dark.</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div><p>
  <b>Paris, France - 2007 CE</b>
</p><p>Francis—no, <b>France</b>—is having trouble placing him at first; unsurprising, as it has, for him, been upwards of sixty-five years.  Jack watches as his eyes first widen with acknowledgement, then narrow in concentration as he studies his face, carefully examining every feature in an attempt to recognize the man standing before him amidst the ruins of what was, mere days ago, a crowded city square.</p><p>"I thought I could help with the clean-up effort," Jack offers as an explanation, and it is a half-truth.  The other half is that he has come to Paris for purely selfish reasons, to escape the heartbreak that seized him last night, when the report of London's dead was published.  So he extends a hand in greeting—"Captain Jack Harkness, at your service,"—and watches his companion's eyes double in size as recognition finally, <i>finally</i> sets in.</p><p>"<i>Mon capitaine</i>," the blond says, and <i>surprised</i> does little justice to describe the tone of his voice. "Do you have something you wish to tell me?"</p><p>Jack laughs, and catches the man—no, the <b>nation</b>—around the waist, pulling him as close as their bodies will allow.  France, in turn, falls into an easy smile, despite the ache that must be twisting in his chest; merely basking in the presence of a companion who, like he, has seen far too much.</p><p>"Later," Jack promises, and knows they can wait that long—after all, the two of them have all the time in the world.</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div><p>
  <b>Starship Français - 2899 CE</b>
</p><p>He's honestly surprised by the rugged smile waiting for him when he disembarks from the carrier.  Not that Jack is complaining, particularly; these days, any sort of familiarity is welcome to him.</p><p>"Wasn't sure I'd see you," he comments, casting an appreciating eye at the nation's form-flattering outfit, as flashy as it ever was (he always did prefer the blond in blue). "You look well."</p><p>France laughs, and molds his body against Jack's, the warmth from where they touch causing welcome heat to pool in the captain's groin.</p><p>"Oh, <i>mon capitaine</i>," he purrs. "I am so much more than well."</p><p>Of course, they find themselves in bed again: a tangle of limbs and hot mouths and heavy breathing.  France is beautiful beneath him, and makes the sweetest sounds when Jack pushes into him.  He holds the captain's face in his hands when he comes.</p><p>After, when they lie entwined in the lingering heat, the Frenchman seems far away, his eyes fixed on the window as though it will give him answers.</p><p>"Your head tied up in something?" Jack asks, and France sighs into his shoulder.</p><p>"My head," he murmurs, "and my heart."</p><p>There is nothing more immediately forthcoming, and Jack allows his fingers to wander the many scars that litter the blond's perfect body.  There are so many more than last time; many of them, he realizes, are burns.</p><p>"Do you think he made it off the planet?" France continues a length. "Do you think England drifts now, like myself, in this endless space?" And Jack laughs out loud at that, because doesn't he <b>know</b>?  Hasn't he lived long enough to have seen?</p><p>"I wouldn't worry about <i>votre Angleterre</i>," he says, and doesn't pretend he didn't butcher the accent. "I have this friend, you see, who would never let his beloved England burn away."</p><p>And France smiles to himself, then—because they both know he isn't the only one with his heart tied up in other things.</p><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div><p>
  <b>New New York Hospital, New Earth - 5,000,000,009 CE</b>
</p><p>The Face of Boe rarely has personal visitors these days.  People flock to his tank from all corners of the galaxy, certainly—hoping to see him, or perhaps to be given a piece of his wisdom.  But they come to do just that: to <i>see</i> him, never to see <i>him</i>. They do not come as a visitor, or an old friend, to talk of days long past and galaxies long burned away.  So when a familiar face stands before his tank, aged and elegantly-dressed, the Face of Boe must allow himself the smallest of laughs.</p><p>"Ah," he sighs, the slightest inclination of longing entering his voice. "So still you survive."</p><p>The blond nation has looked better (though the same could be said for Boe himself): the hair, once so luscious and golden like cornsilk, has at last succumbed to time and turned a fair silvery grey, held back with a pale blue ribbon.  He does not stand as tall as he used to (no longer able, his spine bending with age) and he leans his weight on a finely-crafted cane.  But through the creases that mark his handsome face, his purring laugh is forever unmistakable.</p><p>"Try to hide your enthusiasm, <i>mon capitaine</i>," France smiles. "I am not so easily done away with; so long as there are Frenchmen in the universe, Mother France shall persevere."</p><p>Boe's lips curve in a smile.</p><p>"You must forgive my assumptions, old friend," he says, and there is undeniable amusement in his telepathic tone. "But I was present to witness the Earth swallowed by its sun not a decade ago.  I assumed you were tied to your land, and that once it had gone..."</p><p>He trails off, the rest not needing to be said to be heard, and France smiles knowingly. "You know what they say about assumptions," he chides. "I was tied to my land, yes.  But more, I am tied to my people—even when few remain."</p><p>The words are sad, but at the same time, accepting; France knows he has only a few generations left in him, if that.  He is old, and he is scarred, and the loss of his tangible country has weakened him tremendously.  Boe sees it, and he smiles to know it.</p><p>"I, too, feel tired," the Face of Boe confesses. "I think, perhaps, my time is coming to an end.  It will not be long now, before the time comes when I will deliver my final message."</p><p>France leans into the tank, one withered hand against the glass, as though the gesture could be returned: palm-to-palm, fingers entwined amongst the pillows, hot mouths and moans.</p><p>"I know, <i>mon capitaine</i>," he whispers. "I know."</p><p>Under the sky of the new planet, the pair stand in silence, the need for words long past; while lightyears and lifetimes away, a man pours a second glass of wine for his new acquaintance, whose laughter gives him chills.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>